


vive le roi

by aftersh0cks



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, Dystopia, F/M, Gen, M/M, New Monarchy, all relationships eventual
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-07
Updated: 2013-03-21
Packaged: 2017-12-04 13:16:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/711168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aftersh0cks/pseuds/aftersh0cks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The year is 2128.  France has a new king on the throne, but this time, he rules the world, and the group that rises against them is Les Amis de l'ABC. They will free the earth like their 1832 counterparts never did, and they will succeed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. pay no mind

“Don’t shoot! Long live the King!”

Enjolras dropped his gun as he yelled the words. It clattered loudly against the floor. The Paris Military Main wasn’t a smart thing to break into, in all honesty, but it was a necessity. Four of Enjolras’ men were breaking into the safe to burn the French Constitution of 2120, which was neither written in French nor constitutional, more like the English Declaration of Dictatorship. Another three men were waiting outside, their backup team. Enjolras was currently connected to them via a mike and a small contact-lens camera.  

Really, Enjolras just wished he wasn’t the goddamn bait again. You would have thought the leader of the resistance could stay safe, but he was here, holding up both arms as a guard stared him down with the barrel of a gun. It didn’t really matter on the whole if he died—Combeferre could take over the operation easily—but Enjolras would much prefer to stay alive, thank you very much.

“I’ve heard of intruders in the Parisian Military Main right now,” the guard said suspisciously. “Are you one of them?”

“Clearly not,” Enjolras said, forcing his voice into a Brooklyn accent. His native was American. He’d mastered many of the most common accents as well as languages. “M’name’s John. I forgot my badge, that’s all—is that too hard to see?” He patted his chest. “That ain’t a crime.”

The guard narrowed his eyes. “Do you speak French?” the guard asked in French.

“Fluently,” Enjolras answered. It was his first language—English was his second. He had learned them at the same time, though, so it didn’t really matter. He also spoke Japanese, Russian, German and Arabic from a young age. From there it was easy to branch out into less fluent languages that were similiar—Chinese, Italian, Persian. God bless his father. “Can I put my hands down now?”

“How old are you?”

“Calm!” Enjolras insisted. “Twenty-two. I was ten when King Louis-Charles II came onto the throne. New York Native, was able to learn French easily.”

The guard was still suspicious. Who wouldn’t be? A young man appearing, unidentified, in the single most important military base of the French Monarchy. “Get down,” he ordered.

Slowly, Enjolras lowered himself to the ground, keeping his eyes trained on the barrel of the gun. “Please. Don’t shoot. I just want to get my damn badge. John Fabian, look it up. Jem Lee should tell you—he let me in.”

“Up,” ordered the guard.

Enjolras was forced to suppress a laugh at how stereotypically idiotic this guy was. He didn’t resist as the guard handcuffed him to the nearest post.

The guard stormed over to the nearest phone, as he didn’t have Jem Lee’s number on hand. After a nice lengthy chat with Jem Lee, some freshfaced youth that didn’t know how to do anything, the guard turned around, ready to let John Fabian go.

Except he wasn’t there. Instead, scrawled on the post in black marker was, _VIVE LA REPUBLIQUE! LONG LIVE THE FUTURE!_

The guard cursed. Loudly. He called Jem Lee on the radio this time, demanding that the alarms be turned on and that he should be fired for letting an intruder past, while Jem Lee stammered and cried that he didn’t know he was letting anyone past.  

When the guard slammed the phone, he got to work scrubbing the goddamn graffiti off. Nothing like this was happening on his watch.

 

The alarms blared, startling Enjolras. Jehan blazed forwards into the cramped airlock. Jehan was smaller than Enjolras, which gave him an advantage. He also didn’t have a handcuff dangling off his left wrist. The handcuff clanged on the cold metal floor with every move Enjolras made.

“Thanks for that,” gasped Enjolras. He crawled after Jehan, getting a nice view of his ass. And then he immediately felt guilty for admiring Jehan’s ass, because this was a mission, and Enjolras was the leader. Leaders weren’t supposed to admire asses.

“What was I supposed to do? Leave you there?” Jehan said. “He was going to find out sooner or later. Come on, this way.”

Jehan took a sharp right and Enjolras almost smashed into the wall. Instead, he turned to a large room that immediately blew his shirt up; they were standing on a metal grate that looked and felt rather unstable, and underneath it was a giant fan. Over was a small grate barely big enough for Enjolras’ body to fit through, if he was correct.

This plan wasn’t looking very good to Enjolras, but he trusted his team with his life.

“Courfeyrac,” said Jehan. “We’re at gate sixty-nine. Do you read me?”

The telltale giggle in Enjolras’ ear gave the man away. Courfeyrac was twenty-one, but he had the maturity of a five-year-old. “Yes, I read,” Courfeyrac said, “and of all the gates, you had to pick sixty-nine?”

“Pervert,” Enjolras said.

“Right, I was looking at your camera about thirty seconds ago. You can explain _that_ to me later. I’m coming for Jehan; if you want to stay there, that’s fine.”

“We have one minute!” Enjolras barked. At that moment, there was a clatter from the gate above them and Courfeyrac’s bright green eyes appeared.

“Fast enough for you?” he called. “Hold on a sec and stand back. I’m undoing the gate.” Jehan pushed Enjolras back, and within thirty seconds the gate was undone and a rope snaked down in front of them. “Jehan first,” said Courfeyrac.

Jehan cast Enjolras an apologetic look and tied the rope under his arms as Courfeyrac pulled him up; Enjolras turned to scowl at Courfeyrac, who struggled for a few seconds. It seemed as if someone else had come to help; Jehan sped up a lot faster.

Which was good, because there were loud clanking noises coming from down the airway, and they were more than likely guards. Enjolras didn’t have a gun. He had left it on the floor of the room he had escaped from, having no time to get it.

“Hurry up!” he shouted as Courfeyrac and the other person hoisted Jehan over. The rope immediately came sailing down again, still looped, and Enjolras simply stepped into it and pulled the loop to his arms. With three people to pull him, he journeyed up a lot faster.

Three guards broke into the room, waving guns and shouting. “Guards!” shouted Enjolras, and he was pulled up so fast he winded himself on the edge for a second, and a bullet grazed his shoe. Enjolras pulled his feet up and scrambled up, and Courfeyrac grabbed the grate, peered down, and instead of putting the grate back on, he threw it in.

And then he winced.

Courfeyrac turned back towards the other three, who were still panting with adrenaline. Cosette, the third, had Enjolras and Jehan by the hand. “What are you still doing there?” he yelled. “Go!”

Cosette took a running jump towards the helicopter, hoisted herself up and threw the ladder down to the boys, who climbed it. Courfeyrac was the last to get on; he grabbed the ladder and latched the door as Jehan took over the helicopter, sailing it away. 

“The grate broke at the bottom,” Courfeyrac told them, checking to make sure the door was locked. Jehan came back out as he got the helicopter under control. “They’re all dead.”

The four people in the helicopter shared a moment of silence. Cosette lowered her head, looking sad. She was a gentle soul, in the resistance because she cared about people, not to fight. She was tough and brave, though she didn’t show it.

In her youth, her mother had been killed for badmouthing the French Government. Cosette had been only two then. She had been sent to live in the Monfermeil Youth Correctional Facility for years until she had been adopted by a man by the name of Jean Valjean.

Of course, those weren’t really their names. Enjolras, Courfeyrac, Jean Valjean...

It was kind of silly that a revolutionary society should base themselves around a book, but in all honesty, it was perfect. The characters fit them like molds, and so they had adopted the names of who they thought fit them. It had been Enjolras’ idea.

To this day, neither of them knew each other’s real names. It had been years since Enjolras’ father had set this small revolution ablaze. Twenty years later, Enjolras himself was heading it, a worldwide network of thousands of people ready to overthrow King Louis-Charles at any moment, when it was opportune.

Enjolras collapsed on the floor of the helicopter. “Did they get it?” he asked.

“Already halfway to the base,” said Courfeyrac proudly. “They’re going to photocopy it, send it to Bossuet, and incinerate it. This shit security really worked for us. I mean, that escape? Classic! So stereotypical they should have seen it coming!” He laughed.

Jehan grinned and grabbed Enjolras’ left hand, holding it up. “Well, Enjolras has a souvenir,” he said in his gentle voice, before ducking back inside the cockpit. 

Cosette grabbed a tool from the wall and eased the blade between Enjolras’ wrist and the handcuff, and she pressed down. The handcuff snapped and Enjolras shook his hand. “Thanks, Cosette,” he said, smiling at her.

“No problem,” Cosette said, smiling. “Jehan, can you put it on autopilot?”

Jehan walked out of the cockpit a second later, smiling. “Already done, sweetie,” he said, sitting down beside her. “Wait a second—“ and he leaned forwards—“Grantaire, where are you?”

“Nearly there,” Grantaire said cheerfully in Enjolras’ ear as he turned up the volume. “No one following. We’re good.”

“Stay connected until you get back to the Musain, okay?” Enjolras told Grantaire.

“Yup. Ten-four,” said Grantaire, and he started whistling. Enjolras turned the volume down.

Courfeyrac yawned, stretching his arms. “Listen, you guys, I’m going to take a fuckin’ nap, thank you, and I don’t want to be interrupted unless we’re going to die or we’re back, okay?”

Scowling, Enjolras said, “Courf, you spent the entire time waiting in the copter. Who was it that got the French Constitution? Who was it that acted as a distraction?”

“Who was it that saved your sorry asses?” Courfeyrac responded, raising an eyebrow. “Goodnight, Enjy.” He smirked and disappeared into the back, taking up the only bed.

“I hate you!” called Enjolras.

Actually, he was quite fond of Courfeyrac. Of all his lieutenants (or so they jokingly called themselves). Courfeyrac just never took much seriously. At least, though, he wasn’t Grantaire. Grantaire took _nothing_ seriously but his wine and his art. His entire life was cynicism. He raised his glass and he grinned, but did nothing else. (Okay, Enjolras was fond of Grantaire too, and he couldn’t deny it.)

Jehan already was at work passing the ride back by threading Cosette’s hair through with ribbons. Enjolras lay down on the hard bench seating and closed his eyes.

Perhaps a nap would be nice.

 

The base of Les Amis de l’ABC was situated in the Alps, in and underneath a mountain. It was giant. It had to be. Thousands of people lived there. It was a safe haven for Europeans as much as it was a military base.

It had once been a base for the French Military, though it had been abandoned long ago, probably when Louis-Jules Bourbon was elected in 2089. The election of a Bourbon had changed things. Sure, Bonapartes and Bourbons had been in France ever since the monarchy fell, but they’d worked together.

A new France, they had whispered. Slowly, their plan took place.

Here they were. Louis-Charles. A dictator, to be honest. He was a dictator, not a King, and it wasn’t just France living under the dictatorship: it was the world.

Twenty years ago, Enjolras’ father had had enough. The infant Enjolras had traveled with him to a small cottage not far from where the current base currently was and lived there, silently gathering a force. He’d stumbled upon the base. And then he’d built with the force he had then, about a thousand people. Upgrading and fortifying it until it was no longer simply an abandoned military base, but a respectable haven for any members of the resistance.

Ten years ago, Enjolras’ father had been shot in front of Enjolras himself. Enjolras had formed Les Amis de l’ABC at twelve years of age. Though only a child, he had his father’s friends to help him. He christened himself Enjolras after the leader of the resistance in Victor Hugo’s _Les Miserables,_ set nearly three hundred years ago, and he took over his father’s operations.

By sixteen, he was adept at it. He could order people around without a second thought, people who were twice his age, and they would do what he asked. At sixteen, he had met Combeferre, and his lieutenants came together throughout the years. The last one was Feuilly, two years ago.

At twenty-two, Enjolras was fearsome to the French Monarchy, but they didn’t know his name, only that he called himself after a leader vying to do the same thing as the present-day Enjolras: bring down the monarchy. At twenty-two, he knew all there was to know about the Resistance, the King, the military tactics employed by the Monarchy and the various revolutionary groups around the world.

He had maps of the world’s bases situated in his office and kept a constant stream of information going, ready to act at a moment’s notice. The government didn’t know who he was, or what he looked like, or how he would act.

Rumor had it they called him a shadow. He’d hacked into the government computers from the palace in Versailles and stated that he preferred Enjolras. He knew his way around the world and had the best youth in the country helping him out, and the best advisors he could ever have. Cosette’s father, Jean Valjean, was one of Enjolras’ most knowledgeable people, and Enjolras respected Monsieur Mabeuf almost as much as he respected his late father.

It neared two in the morning as Enjolras finally shut the door to the garage and set off down the hallway. Everyone else was turning in, but Enjolras had go to check in the news room, because Bossuet would surely be there.

Enjolras rapped on the door. “Bossuet?”

“Hey, Enjolras,” Bossuet said. Enjolras walked inside. The glare from all the screens lit Bossuet’s face and his receding hairline. “Rumor is they have biological warfare research going on.”

Enjolras winced. Biological warfare was never humane. “We’re stopping that shit,” he said, reaching to touch Bossuet’s shoulder lightly, “but not today. Go to bed. You know we’ll wake if anything happens.”

Bossuet had programmed a software that would alert the heads of each department if anything major happened, due to key words and manual alerts from leaders of resistances across the world. Resignedly Bossuet nodded, standing up. “Okay, then. You sleep too. Goodnight, Enjolras.”

“Night.” Enjolras stood in the empty room for a few minutes. The fluorescents weren’t on, but the light from the TV screens lit everything with a blue glow.

Enjolras hurried out of the room to his own. It wasn’t particularly cozy. Really, it was a room that was connected to Combeferre’s by ways of the bathroom, and it was spacious enough for a desk, a bed, a few drawers and a little bit of open space. Most of the furniture was standard. The bedspread was red, and the walls were painted white. The only bit of personalization were two framed pictures: one of his friends and the other of his father.

A laptop sat on his desk with the words ABC engraved into it. It was their brand, and only in this base, because it was too dangerous anywhere else. Only technology softwares were imported across the world, and the softwares were used to eradicate any _BOURNAPARTE_ from anything a resistance group had. It had been coded by Bossuet, so it worked.

 _BOURNAPARTE_ was the company of the world. Enjolras had read up on McDonalds, and Wal-Marts, and Apples, but multiple transnational corporations were not the norm anymore. One company for them all: _BOURNAPARTE._

And ABC, because Enjolras was loath to trust anything else. If it wasn’t stamped with the circle and ABC, it probably had government influence on it.

He showered and changed into a clean pair of clothes and had finally almost drifted to sleep when he heard a slight moan coming from his ear. He’d left his earpiece in again, which wasn’t uncommon. Enjolras opened his eyes.

Another moan. Enjolras rubbed his temples, irritated.

Fucking Courfeyrac. 


	2. unrequited love party & a meeting

Enjolras didn't even bother knocking; he just barged in, which would be weird if it wasn't Courfeyrac. It happened when one of your best friends was having sex with someone  _without turning his mic off. Again_.

It was lucky Enjolras even cared enough to tell Courfeyrac he'd left the mic on. One day, he wouldn't, and he'd let everyone wearing an earpiece connected to the channel hear Courfeyrac fucking someone. See if Enjolras cared.

Courfeyrac was in bed with some girl. It really wasn't surprising. He was the king of one night stands and breaking people's hearts. Not just girls, either. Guys, too, and anyone else on the gender spectrum.

"Do you hear anything wrong with this picture?" Enjolras said conversationally, leaning against the wall. The girl screamed. Luckily she was already under the covers and only had her head to bury. Courfeyrac yelped and fell on one side, sitting up.

"Jesus, Enjolras!" he shouted, pulling the cover over his waist, because even Courfeyrac had  _some_ dignity. Then he frowned. "Wait, what do you mean..."

Enjolras touched his left ear, and so did Courfeyrac, who paled. "Shit. Again?"

"Shit is right, and yes, you imbecile,  _again_. Grantaire's probably recording the whole damn thing right now. Pass me the earpiece." He walked closer to the bed and held out his hand, mostly for the sake of  _not_ seeing one of his best friend's dick (again) as Courfeyrac took off the earpiece.

He handed it to Enjolras and bit his lip, glancing down. "Andi,  _not now_. The leader of the damn revolution is in the room, but don't come out from under the covers either." Not many people knew that the young blonde led the revolution, even people in ABC City himself, and Enjolras was unwilling to change that soon.

Enjolras wanted to shriek but he figured he would wait until he was in his room. He set the earpiece down on Courfeyrac's table and left quickly, unwilling to see a second more of this. Courfeyrac may have looked cute, but he was a sex maniac.

Actually, his cuteness probably helped with getting girls and guys to fuck. It was another staple of how he took a lot of things lightly, from his struggle with being monogamous to fooling around on missions.

Once Enjolras was back in his room, it was three o'clock.

 _Fucking Courfeyrac_ , he thought again, before removing his own earpiece and pulling the covers over himself. He deserved some goddamn sleep.

 

Grantaire was awake of his own accord, lying on his stomach with music blaring around him (thank God the walls were soundproof, for more than one reason) and paints everywhere.

If he could pick one thing he liked, it was painting.

Actually, it was Enjolras, but Grantaire considered for a second that he didn't count. One of his favorite subjects to paint was Enjolras, but Grantaire would paint shitting anything. Commissions from the citizens of ABC City, anti-propaganda, portraits of passers-by in Paris or Madrid or London or everywhere else Grantaire happened to visit... anything. As long as the person paid a good sum and wasn't the French Monarchy.

(In all actuality, he didn't mind the French Monarchy either—he was pretty sure he had a painting hanging up on the walls of Versailles. Grantaire was also pretty sure that he'd been so drunk when the painting had been made there was an imprint of his face upon that painting as well.)

Grantaire's room was a mess. His walls and floor were covered with paints, as were a good number of his clothes and bed. Furniture as well. Even his ceiling had some paint on it. While Enjolras and Courfeyrac (surprisingly) always had spotless rooms, Grantaire's room was more like a pigsty than anything else. An artsy pigsty, but still.

There was a soft knock on his door, one that barely rang through the notes blaring from his speakers. He paused the music and went to answer the door, completely forgetting that he was wearing boxers and only boxers.

"Um," Jehan said, as he opened it.

Grantaire glanced down, blushed, and put on a shirt as Jehan stood outside awkwardly. "Come in," said Grantaire.

Jehan was with Grantaire in the "messy room" department. Most of Jehan's bedroom floor was covered with clothes and notebooks. They were both artists, just of different sorts, and he supposed artists shared that trait of things strewn everywhere, like their minds had ideas and colors and words strewn everywhere. "What are you painting?"

Grantaire simply gestured towards the canvas; a picture of Paris in 1832. He was re-reading  _Les Miserables_ , finding it really goddamn fascinating, because he  _was_ Grantaire. He'd adopted the name even before he'd met Enjolras and the rest of Les Amis. "Just that."

"Are you going to sell it?"

Grantaire shrugged. He sold a lot of his paintings, but the personal ones he hung up on his walls, far above where the paint could reach. He gave paintings to his friends of them, just for shits and giggles (because what's creeper than having your own face stare down at you?) but hadn't given one to Enjolras of himself yet, because he couldn't capture Enjolras' ethereal beauty, nor his passion, nor the exact blue of his eyes or blond of his hair.

It was fucking impossible.

He doubted he would ever get it, but he still tried. Grantaire sat down on the beanbag chair in the corner. "What's up, Jehan?"

Grantaire and Jehan were different in so many ways. Grantaire was a scruffy, cynical, usually drunk pessimist who didn't believe in anything. Jehan was feminine, idealistic and dreamy, and believed in love, most of all.

But in so many ways, they were the same. Both artists. Both outcasts. Both in the revolution. Both in love with someone who would never look at them as a romantic interest twice. "Courfeyrac?" guessed Grantaire.

Jehan sighed and nodded. "I guess that's what happens when you forget to take out your mic."

"Again," Grantaire said. It was disgusting. Okay, it was hilarious, but that didn't mean it wasn't disgusting as well. "You know Courfeyrac. He just has a hard time being monogamous with people. He's young. He's horny. It'll die down someday." And he smiled. "At least he's not a leader of a fucking revolution, huh?"

"At least Enjolras isn't with anyone else," Jehan said pointedly. "And Courfeyrac is with, oh, at least ten people a month." He leaned back on Grantaire's paint-splattered bedspread. "If this is going to turn into a lament party, let's invite Éponine over as well."

Grantaire couldn't help but smile. "If she's still awake," he said, and leaned over to punch in Éponine 's number.

"'Sup?" Éponine said.

"We're having a lament party," said Grantaire. "My room. Right now. Come on over." Without waiting for an answer from Éponine , he hung up and returned to his painting. Jehan had brought his notebook. "Exciting day today," he commented, as if he was talking about the weather. "Part of why I can't sleep."

Jehan doodled a flower in the corner of his page. "I suppose. Mostly because Courfeyrac has to stop leaving his mic on, though. Actually, we  _all_ have to stop leaving our mics on."

"Yeah," Grantaire agreed. "Ew."

There was a knock on Grantaire's door fifteen minutes later; Éponine had come with food and her pillow. There were many reasons why Éponine was one of Grantaire's best friends, starting with the fact that she, too, was suffering from unrequited love. Marius Pontmercy was a kid—eighteen years old, that was a kid to Grantaire—who had come to ABC when he was fifteen. He'd promptly fallen in love with Cosette and they'd been together ever since. He joined up with the revolutionary force a year later and promptly managed to climb his way to the top, falling more and more in love with the blonde girl as time went by.

Éponine, who had come to the ABC City with Marius, was not so happy, having been in love with the doltboy for a couple years. Grantaire had first spotted her in the girl's bathroom, furious and heartbroken, and they'd been friends ever since.

He'd learned to discover many more things he loved about her, such as her dyed hair and her slightly manic personality and her talent with sketching comical figures. They were similar, and within a month, Grantaire had felt like he had known her all his life.

Jehan was friends with Cosette and rarely associated with Éponine outside of Grantaire. It wasn't awkward, but he didn't mention Cosette around Éponine. It was a rule for them; Éponine did not take the existence of Cosette well at all.

"Movies and popcorn?" Éponine said, stepping inside Grantaire's room.

"Please," Jehan said. "And lamenting. Lots of lamenting. Do you know what we heard on the mics today?"

Éponine 's grin shifted into a grimace of horror. "Fucking Courfeyrac," she said.

"Fucking Courfeyrac," agreed Jehan. "Now, give me that popcorn."

 

As it turned out, only Bossuet and Joly awoke in time for the meeting and they found themselves sitting at the table with the older adults in the group.

"I'm going to call off the meeting," Joly said, looking around. "Clearly, everyone is still asleep."

He wished he had a microphone in right now, but everyone had likely taken theirs off from the day before. He could always use the regular phone, but wasn't keen on punching in everyone's phone numbers separately. Honestly, it was a shame, because Joly really needed to discuss this biological warfare thing with  _somebody_ (preferably Enjolras) or he was going to have a full-blown panic attack and Musichetta was already at work, and she was always the best person to comfort him.

ABC City grew their own food. They had indoor pastures big enough to feed a town of ten thousand people. The water was filtered with their own filtering system. This was a town designed around the notion of protecting their people, and they did it well—Joly himself had designed some of the safety measures. Diseases relating to the consumption of food and water was a rarity in ABC City—something that couldn't be said for the rest of the world.

However, when it came to disease, Joly lived by the saying, "You can never be too careful," and thus had considered the possibility the water might have been contaminated. Contaminated water led to contaminated crops and contaminated food.

He was not eating until he found out as much of this biological warfare business as he possibly could, which had better be  _soon_ because Joly was starving.

 

Courfeyrac woke alone. It was something he was used to; sleeping curled next to someone and waking up with nothing but a cold blanket against his body. He pulled it over himself; it was the middle of winter and Courfeyrac was naked.

He pressed his face into the pillow. Another fuck and go. Courfeyrac knew his friends always joked about him being a slut, and he joked about it too. He  _was_ kind of a slut. If he used his fingers and toes, he couldn't even count the number of people he'd slept with. More people than he was proud of, that was for sure.

And, okay, maybe it was amusing sometimes because Joly would worriedly attempt to educate him on STIs (actually, that was more disgusting than amusing) and Enjolras would storm into his room, clearly embarrassed, yelling that he'd left the mic on again (which Courfeyrac did  _not_ do on purpose—no one remembered to take the mic out half the time). But Courfeyrac liked feeling good. Sex felt good.

It was better than drink, at least. Grantaire drank to feel good, or at least forget. He drank so much that he'd often be stumbling into Courfeyrac's door at three o'clock in the morning. Unlike many people, he wasn't a predictive drunk—sometimes he'd be laughing, sometimes he'd be sobbing, sometimes he would just be staring off into space muttering about classical literature—Victor Hugo, J.K. Rowling, even Aeschylus. Sometimes he gallivanted off to Éponine 's or Jehan's as well.

Really, Courfeyrac didn't think he could settle down into a relationship, though at times he wanted to. It was the connection between people Courfeyrac liked; that singular point in time when names were on lips and bare skin was upon bare skin. And then it was gone. Just like that. They left in the morning and Courfeyrac woke alone, cold air next to him instead of the warm skin he'd fallen asleep next to.

Blearily, he glanced at the clock—"Shit!" he cried, scrambling out of bed. It was ten-thirty. There would be a meeting at ten o'clock. He was late.

He rolled out of bed and grabbed the nearest pair of boxers and a dress shirt, attempting to tie the bowtie as he hopped into a pair of black jeans. Enjolras didn't necessarily object to showing up at meetings in casual clothing, but Courfeyrac would rather not risk it.

Five minutes later he stumbled out of his room, putting a blue cardigan on and running to the elevator that took him up to the offices. He skidded into room 25A to find no one there.

"Fuck!" he yelled. "Did I just come up here for nothing? Oh my god—"

"Courfeyrac, calm down," said Enjolras from behind him. "Everyone's just overslept, that's all." He walked into the room and set a folder down at his seat. "The others should be up shortly. Did you have fun last night?"

The words were slightly mocking, slightly teasing. Courfeyrac grinned. "I sure did. You should try getting laid sometime, Enjolras."

"No, thank you."

"Hey, are you talking about Enjolras getting laid?" said Grantaire. He wore a striped green shirt and  _Superman_ pyjama bottoms. He took a seat. "Because he should. He totally should."

"I can't," Enjolras said. "I've too much work to do. I'm running a revolution, guys. Can you just take your horny minds off women—"

"Gay," piped up Grantaire.

"I only like girls some of the time!" protested Courfeyrac.

"—I'm sorry,  _men_ and please focus?"

Courfeyrac tilted his head at Enjolras, biting his lip. "Well," he said thoughtfully, "I did see you staring at Jehan's ass yesterday in the middle of a mission. You have to watch out with those lens-cams. Make sure your eyes don't... stray."

Enjolras flushed. "What can I say? I'm a cis male that's not asexual. I just ignore most sexual urges because I have work, unlike the rest of you who can fuck as many people as you want—and Courfeyrac, I don't care how many people you choose to have sex with, or who,  _as long as I don't hear it_. I swear to God if you ever leave an contact-cam in..."

"Like you?" Courfeyrac smirked knowingly. "Jehan does have a nice ass, though," he said, and grinned. "And to think if of it, you have a fine ass as well, Enj. Grantaire, you have a good... hair."

"Fuck you, Courfeyrac," Grantaire said, rolling his eyes. He turned back to Enjolras. "What is this meeting about, anyways? There's not much more than the usual goings-on of the Monarchy happening, as far I know."

And Enjolras grimaced. "I went to Bossuet yesterday. He reports that the French Monarchy is researching none less than biological weaponry."

"Oh, shit," said Courfeyrac softly. "What the hell does the government want with biological weapons? What the hell will they  _use them_ for? France rules the world, anyways." And then: "I want to kiss Joly better; he's probably freaking out." It was a sentence that would have been weird if it hadn't come from Courfeyrac's mouth.

Grantaire smiled. "If he doesn't kill you first."

"If  _Musichetta_ doesn't kill you first," corrected Enjolras. Joly's girlfriend worked with Bahorel in the weapons department and was one of the fiercest ladies Enjolras had on his team, right there with Éponine Thenardier, who dropped in on all the departments. Musichetta, though, was the perfect femme fatale—tough exterior, but Enjolras had seen her and Joly together. It was clear they cared greatly about one another.

A few minutes later most of the group arrived, along with Mabeuf and Valjean. The only person who was absent was Marius Pontmercy. Enjolras figured he could get the meeting started without him. He explained the situation about biological warfare and passed it onto Joly and Bossuet, both of whom were the most knowledgeable about it.

" _Bacillus anthracis,_ " Joly explained. Musichetta grasped his hand. "Found in livestock but can be easily grown in a laboratory situation, which is why we're concerned. Basically, released, it lets out spores that can be inhaled and causes influenza-like symptoms until it develops into a lethal disease that none of you will be able to understand if I say it, so I'll refrain. Just know that it's pretty damn deadly. It takes about seven to nine days to develop enough to kill you. The fatality rate is over 90% in untreated patients, which is why I'm already getting some scientists to try to develop antibiotics and vaccines, just in case."

"Why the Monarchy needs biological warfare, I've no fucking idea," Bahorel muttered. "Sorry, Joly. Go on."

Joly nodded. "Thanks, Bahorel. Anyways—you can see why this is serious. There's a pulmonary form that causes a massive edema—"

"Um," interrupted Feuilly, "some of us aren't doctors. No offense."

"A massive blood clot in your lungs," Joly said bluntly. "Fatal. It can cause you to go into cardiac shock. We need to develop antibiotics, but the best thing to do is to stop this. Destroy all the research into it and get rid of the bacteria."

Enjolras nodded. "And we need to figure out how to do that without taking any of us ill, because if one of us goes ill..."

"Actually," said Joly, "the bacteria's quite unlikely to spread from person to person. But yes, if any of us fall ill, it would be, in short, terrible for our cause."

"Bahorel?" Enjolras asked. "Any ideas?"

At that moment Marius Pontmercy hurried in, his clothes disheveled and a dreamy expression on his face. Enjolras straightened, setting his gaze on the youngest member of their group. "Marius," he said, "you're late."

"What's wrong?" Joly asked, his eyebrows furrowing. Likely hoping it wasn't contagious. "Are you ill?"

"It's just Cosette!" Marius exclaimed, taking his seat beside Grantaire. "I'm just so in love with her I can barely function—"

"Pontmercy," cut in Enjolras. Marius looked up. "If you haven't noticed, we're in a meeting. This isn't the place to talk about your love interests. This is a place to discuss the well-being of the world around us which will house your love once we free it. Grantaire, please update Mari—"

Grantaire snored loudly. Enjolras suppressed a sigh. "Just ... someone, update Pontmercy on what's going on, okay? Bahorel, how do you think we should destroy the bacteria?"

Bahorel explained, and Courfeyrac found himself zoning out of the meeting. He knew it wasn't important, but he also knew that Enjolras would give him a briefing if he ever had to do anything related to this. Until then, he was free to zone out and think. Courfeyrac leaned back, bored, biting on the tip of his pen. Jehan sat beside him, threading his hands through his hair, which he wore in a simple plait today. The man looked slightly down, so Courfeyrac tapped Jehan's hand and wrote  _hello_ on it. Jehan raised an eyebrow, took his own pen and scribbled,  _hey :)_ back.


	3. trials and tribulations of eponine and grantaire

Éponine Thenardier was not happy. She had temporarily taken over anti-prop while the designers were away, and the two interns were drawing completely obscene things. She leaned over them. "Genitalia," she said. "Funny."

Her voice dripped with sarcasm and the two sixteen-year-olds looked up at her. Éponine was twenty years old and looked young for her age, but she considered herself to be relatively terrifying when she wanted to be. "I can always report this to Feuilly or Grantaire or Jehan," she said. "I personally can't fire you, but they can. Just because I'm here doesn't mean you can do whatever you please. Delete those drawings and start on the real ones."

Fucking hell. There were reasons why she didn't volunteer for these kinds of jobs, and that was because teenagers were shitheads. Complete shitheads. Except for Marius Pontmercy, who was still sort of shitheaded, but at least he wasn't a total pervert.

Though he had texted her this morning with,  _Cosette gave me flowers yesterday._ And that had succeeded in putting her in a rotten mood for the rest of the day. Of course Cosette had given him flowers; she was his fucking girlfriend, for God's sake. Every time Cosette said, did, or thought something it was always Éponine who heard of it. Include that in the fact that she had quite knowingly stayed up all night when she knew she had a morning shift...

She sat back down at her desk, itching for a cigarette and a can of soda. Perhaps if Grantaire wasn't busy she'd go out to the pub with him tonight.

Then Éponine remembered: today, she was the boss. Éponine could do whatever she damn well pleased. She excused herself and bought herself a soda at the vending machine at the entrance to the building and stepped outside for a smoke, lighting the cigarette.

Fucking everything. Éponine pulled out her phone, hoping Marius hadn't said anything else. He was in the meeting as well, which was yet another thing to get pissed off about. Marius was at the meeting yet she wasn't?

It was bullshit, all of it.

She attempted to blow out a smoke ring. It didn't work. Éponine added that to the list in her mind entitled,  _WHY TODAY IS THE WORST DAY EVER_ and downed half the can of soda.

"Éponine ?" said a woman's voice behind her.

Éponine closed her eyes. She knew that voice, and it was a voice she was loath to hear. Of course. Of course, today, the worst day ever, this would happen to her. What Éponine really wanted to was to turn around and blow smoke all over that delicate face, but instead she blew it out while not facing Cosette and then turned, breaking into a smile that she wasn't sure hid all the resentment. "Cosette!" she said. "I haven't seen you in a while. Don't you have work?"

"Day off," Cosette said. "You?"

"I have to deal with the interns today," Éponine said, jerking a thumb inside the building. "Also the job known as, hell  _no_ , I'm not dealing with teenagers right now. I'm going to stay right out here and enjoy my life before they  _end it_."

Cosette's mouth turned up in a sort of smile. "You were a teenager only two years ago," she commented lightly.

"Yeah, well, I'm not now." She turned and blew the smoke out, watching it disperse into the air. A pretty sight, she had always thought. "And teenagers are the single most annoying, infuriating  _shitfaces_  to grace the world _._ " Other than you, Éponine wanted to add, but she kept her mouth mercifully shut. Insulting the love of Marius' life would surely get him to ban Éponine from ever talking to him again, and that was the last thing Éponine wanted.

"They can't be that bad," Cosette said.

Éponine only cast Cosette a dry look and sucked in some more smoke. She blew it out slowly. "You should see the teenagers in here."

"I'll help, if you want. I don't really have anything else to do."

Éponine looked up in surprise. "Um," she said. She didn't know what to make of the offer. On one hand, she didn't want to accept any help from the blonde. On the other, she really didn't want to deal with the teenagers. Her irritation of the teenagers won out over her irritation of Cosette. "Sure," she said. "Can you just make sure they're not drawing genitalia on their posters again? Feel free to yell at them. I'm just going to finish this." She held her cigarette up in one hand and the can of soda in the other and waved Cosette inside the building.

She blew the smoke out over the railing. Éponine was so  _done_ with today, and it wasn't even noon yet.

xXx

Enjolras stood over Grantaire. "Wake up," he said.

"Mmm," muttered Grantaire. "Chicken nuggets."

Enjolras couldn't help but snort. "Grantaire, you have slept through the entire meeting. Wake up, because I  _can_ and I  _will_ pour water on your face."

Grantaire shot up. "I'll buy you chicken nuggets for lunch!" he cried in a panic, and shook his head, finally realizing that Enjolras was there. He reddened. "Hi, Enjolras."

"I don't particularly like chicken nuggets," Enjolras said, amused, "but we're going for lunch. Coffee, that is, and possibly a grilled panini."

Grantaire blinked up at the man. "Alone?"

"With Joly and Musichetta, but Joly won't accept it, so you're just paying for me." Enjolras smiled. "Come on, Grantaire. Also, you might want to change your pants before you go. I'm changing too, so you'll have time. I'll meet you at the base of the elevator, all right?"

"Thanks," Grantaire muttered. He was still blinking the sleep from his eyes. Grantaire swiped his card to go down to the apartments and changed into jeans and a green t-shirt before joining Joly and Musichetta where Enjolras had said they would be.

He wanted to think of the engagement as a double date, but knew that it was only friendship when it came to Enjolras. Possibly even less than friendship—a friendly rivalry. Of the group, it was usually Enjolras fighting with Grantaire. This was entirely new.

Enjolras came downstairs dressed impeccably, as usual. It didn't matter to Grantaire. Enjolras could wear nothing but a garbage bag and he would still look perfect. That was what being in love was, he thought—admiring every bit of a person, no matter what, no matter when.

Grantaire hated love.

He joined Enjolras as they walked to the cafe, Enjolras updating him on the situation biological warfare. "We're going to take the specimens and bury it," Enjolras said. "We're going with volunteers first before forcing anyone to be on the mission. Courfeyrac suggested none of us go unless no one else volunteers. We're sort of needed."

"Pity," Grantaire said. "I was looking forwards to another day out on the field."

"Unless we get biohazard suits or suitable antibiotics, we're out of luck entirely," Enjolras said in a low voice as they entered the Cafe. Enjolras would only explain in full up in the building, because those were the only people he could trust. You never knew who was working for the Monarchy. Even though you had to complete a form before even entering the base, and you were thoroughly spot-checked, there were still ways to crack the system.

Even Bossuet knew that.

Enjolras told Grantaire what he wanted and then headed to get a seat, leafing out the correct amount of money to leave in Grantaire's spot. Grantaire didn't look fussed, though—he ordered the food and waited, checking his phone as he did so.

(The phones: Bossuet and Enjolras had worked together. ABC Network. Connected around the world. An almost unhackable system—only Bossuet knew how.)

As he waited, Enjolras couldn't help but wonder about taking some time for himself to have a—

No. He couldn't have a romantic relationship. He barely had time for friendship. He led a revolution, for God's sake—working against the government day and night, waking up bleary-eyed day after day because the people of the world needed him. They needed to be free of this damned Monarchy before the Monarchy killed all of them or brainwashed humanity so much that there was no turning back.

A month ago, he had gotten word chips being implanted into infants were being researched. He would have to look into that too, because that was serious. He sent a quick message to Bossuet to remind him to check on how that was going and then shut his phone off. Even Enjolras recognized a break was needed, though he would not take one that wasn't brief.

Grantaire returned with the food. He set Enjolras' plate down on the table and then raised an eyebrow skeptically. "Oh, really. It's fine, Enjolras."

"Take it. I was kidding in a really fucked-up way." Enjolras pushed the money towards him, and Grantaire shook his head, sitting down.

"It's fine," he said. "I don't need money—I'm good, Enjolras." He grinned. "Leave it. Someone's going to pick it up in the end. That's what you want, isn't it?"

Enjolras nodded. "Right," he said, though a small wave of guilt started. "Thank you, Grantaire." His phone lit up, and he resisted the urge to look down at it, turning it upside-down. "Musichetta, you look good."

"Thank you," Musichetta said, smiling sweetly. She looked almost like a cat—an almost feline smile, matching her fierceness on the field.

Joly picked at his pasta. Enjolras' hand inadvertently brushed against Grantaire's, and Grantaire knew it was a teenage-girl thing to do, but he silently freaked out, memorizing the exact spot Enjolras' hand had brushed him.

Oh, how Grantaire  _hated_ love. He hated how in love he was with the leader of the fucking revolution, the one who constantly said he couldn't be in a relationship. Who said he was demisexual, and wasn't even  _open_ to one unless he knew a person well.

Which basically counted Grantaire out and included Combeferre (who was straight) and Courfeyrac (who was sleeping with too many people to even  _think_ about a committed relationship). It sucked, so Grantaire sucked it up, bonded with Jehan and Éponine , and drank to try to forget about how much of a  _giant fucking crush_ he had on the man.

He closed his eyes for a second, and then he ordered a drink. Grantaire needed one right now.

xXx

Over the next two weeks, the plan began to heat up. Enjolras managed to secure five white biohazard suits and picked a spot to dispose of the biological weaponry, which had been through the first stage of production, but wasn't a weapon of mass destruction yet. Better.

The chips. He went to Bossuet who said that it wasn't much of an issue, not yet. They were only just developing and it would be a while before they could actually implant them into anyone. Enjolras told Bossuet to keep an eye on it and sorted through his files to see what was of utmost importance.

Really, Enjolras supposed that he should be glad of two things: one, that the Monarchy wasn't executing anyone simply because of differences, like World War II, and two, that the Monarchy was relatively new. They had hope. They could dream of the future.

He swiveled in his chair to the security computer, looking at the city. The entrances and exits were under twenty-four hour surveillance and notified the computer every time one came in. The important offices were on camera as well most of the time. For the most part, though, there were no cameras on streets or in public areas unless a person wished it to. Enjolras couldn't decide, because he wasn't a government.

He had laws, and he would enforce them, but he wasn't a government. ABC City had no need for one. They governed themselves, and lawyers took care of anything else, because a safe haven didn't need a government. The outside world had enough of one.

Cameras everywhere. Enjolras had once managed to break into the main system and disable a good amount, but he was still working on how to disable all of them. Unless you were an underground society, you were watched. In some cases, you were watched in the privacy of your own bedroom. Enjolras had first noticed this when Courfeyrac had called him up to his hotel room in a panic.

("Well, at least whoever's watching it got a good porno out of it," Enjolras had commented wryly, while Courfeyrac scowled and stated, "Fuck you so much." Deadpan as ever, Enjolras had said, "No, thank you," and Courfeyrac had thus refused to talk to him for the next week.)

Since then, he had only allowed text-based discussions outside of their property, because you just couldn't know these days.

Enjolras watched the security cameras for a minute before forcing himself back to his job. He noticed that there was a crowd around the screen of one computer but thought nothing of it, because these were young adults who were easily amused. He had more important matters to tend to.

He created a list of priorities and was halfway through it before a young man appeared in his room. Enjolras knew him because he was Éponine 's brother, Gavroche, and at fourteen years old one of the youngest interns in the technology department. "Enjolras!" he gasped. "I ran all the way up here to tell you—we need to go to Bossuet—"

"Catch your breath," Enjolras said.

Gavroche shook his head. "I just noticed—I went on the main page of our server and it says, 'Your security was laughable' on it in red letters. We've been hacked."


End file.
